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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27231958">Ghosts of the Past</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/PipMer/pseuds/PipMer'>PipMer</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Established Relationship, Ghosts, M/M, Post-Canon, Spook Me Multi-Fandom Halloween Ficathon, a bit of humor, a bit spooky</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 21:41:47</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,438</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27231958</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/PipMer/pseuds/PipMer</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft gives Sherlock and John tickets to a private piano recital. When they arrive, they find out that not everything is what it seems.</p>
<p>A mostly lighthearted Ghost Story.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Sherlock Holmes/John Watson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>79</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Spook Me Ficathon 2020, Spooky Johnlock Collection</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Ghosts of the Past</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This was written as part of the Spook Me Multi-Fandom Ficathon challenge. Prompt: GHOST</p>
<p>The art prompt given by the challenge moderator is included at the end of the story.</p>
<p>Enjoy!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Sherlock frowned at the pair of tickets he pulled out of the envelope. </p>
<p>“Whatcha got there?” John asked breezily, giving Sherlock’s shoulder a squeeze as he passed by on his way to the kitchen.</p>
<p>“Tickets to a debut performance of a young pianist by the name of Marjorie Holmes, apparently. No relation. They’re for next Saturday evening, 8 o’clock. Private showing, no less. Limited audience.”</p>
<p>John whistled in appreciation. “Fancy. Leave it to Mycroft Holmes to remember our anniversary, and to somehow know that we’ve made no plans of our own. Holmes, you say? Interesting. I wonder why he chose her, aside from the name. Have you heard of her?”</p>
<p>“No. As it says, it’s her debut performance. Solo, as it happens. In celebration of her 18th birthday. I’ve always enjoyed piano music, but Mummy gave Mycroft and I a choice as to what instrument we wanted to learn. Only one; she was a great believer in choosing one thing and doing that one thing well. I chose the violin, Mycroft chose the piano.”</p>
<p>“Really? I would pay to hear a performance by you two.”</p>
<p>Sherlock scowled. “Not a chance. The last time we performed together, I was ten and Mycroft was seventeen. To sum it up in two words: never again.”</p>
<p>“I see.” John pulled himself a beer out of the fridge, popped it open, and took two large swallows. He walked back into the sitting room, letting loose a loud burp as he did so. Sherlock grimaced at his antics.</p>
<p>John plopped down in his chair. “I assume I’ll have to abandon this charming persona for the evening, and dress up in jacket and tie?”</p>
<p>Sherlock grinned. “Unfortunately for you, yes. Fortunately for me, because I get to have an armful of eye candy by my side the entire time.” He winked.</p>
<p>John groaned, head falling back and eyes glaring at the ceiling. “Hardly. Every eye will be on you, like it always is. Men<em> and w</em>omen, mind you. I won’t get a second glance from anybody.”</p>
<p>“Maybe not, but you’ll get all of the glances from me. And I’m the only one that counts.”</p>
<p>John slanted his eyes towards Sherlock. “Such a sweet talker you are. How did I ever live without you?”</p>
<p>“You didn’t. Your life started when you met me.”</p>
<p>“Humble too. I really did hit the jackpot with you, didn’t I?”</p>
<p>“Yes. The recital is, however, just outside of Brighton. So it’ll most likely be an overnight trip.”</p>
<p>John cracked his neck. “Sounds good. Be nice to get away for a bit, on our own. We can have dinner beforehand, maybe. The real question is, will Mrs Hudson be free to watch Rosie?”</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>John’s mouth fell open at the sight of the stately three-storey manor. Several bronze lighting fixtures attached to the front, reminiscent of Victorian era gas lamps, revealed gorgeous green ivy sprawling over the stone surface, interspersed with some kind of vibrant, violet-coloured flower. </p>
<p>The large circular driveway that Sherlock pulled their rental car into contained only five other vehicles.</p>
<p>“Private showing, all right,” John muttered. “It looks like someone’s private residence.”</p>
<p>“It may have been at one time; now it’s rented out to the general public for pretty much any event that you can imagine. Weddings, wakes, graduations, weekend business retreats, concerts like this one.”</p>
<p>“It’s beautiful.”</p>
<p>“Yes.”</p>
<p>John glanced around as he and Sherlock exited their vehicle. He barked out a laugh. “Very atmospheric, this.” </p>
<p>The Harvest moon hung large and bright in the evening sky, seemingly at rest on top of the nearby weeping willow. The light fog that had been present since dinnertime lent a dampness to the crisp night air, the mist swirling around their legs and parting before them as they made their way to the well-lit entrance.</p>
<p>“Good evening, gentlemen,” the greeter said as he collected their tickets at the door. “You two are the last to arrive, so the performance will begin shortly. Gerard will take your coats, and then if you will just follow me.”</p>
<p>Entering the house felt like being transported back in time, to the elegance of an upper class residence during the Victorian era. Sherlock and John were led through a large room with a staircase leading to a second floor that was open on all sides with an interior balcony. A massive crystal chandelier hung threateningly overhead. Their steps echoed as they followed their guide into a cavernous room that could easily be imagined as a ballroom fit for Cinderella and her prince. This was where one could expect a concert to be held, if the expected audience numbered more than the handful who would be present tonight.</p>
<p>Their final destination was a drawing room of sorts, located just past the main ‘ballroom’. Although smaller than the room they had just exited, it was still spacious and inviting.  An old fashioned piano was placed at the far side of the room. Several rows of upholstered wooden benches were lined up on the opposite side, half of which were occupied with spectators. </p>
<p>Sherlock abruptly stopped just inside the entrance, and stared at the piano.</p>
<p>“Brilliant,” he whispered, eyes shining with fascination. “An antique Erard grand piano. Our parents owned one, it’s what Mycroft practiced on. Only ours wasn’t made of oak.”</p>
<p>Several heads swiveled around to fix Sherlock with glares. Sherlock dipped his head in apology. He reached for John’s hand and led him to their seats in the front row. </p>
<p>Interestingly, every other attendant was dressed in mid-nineteenth century garb, as if they were attending a themed fancy dress party. Sherlock and John exchanged a glance before giving each other the once-over. They were both dressed in basic black trousers and jacket, black bow-tie, and white shirt. They shrugged, hoping their attire was generic enough to fit in. They hadn’t been stopped at the door, so that was a good indication that all was well.</p>
<p>The lights dimmed, and a hush settled over the small gathering. A spotlight over the piano remained the only illumination. From a side door, a shadowy figure glided into the spotlight with nary a sound. Silent as a ghost. The young woman had her long blonde hair pulled up in an attractive chignon. She was dressed all in white, her floor-length sleeveless gown accentuating her youthful figure. Her skin was almost as pale as her dress, bloodless and seemingly translucent, almost as if she wasn’t entirely there.</p>
<p>Polite, restrained applause greeted her as she took her seat. After laying her hands on the keys, she glanced up and pinned her audience with a penetrating gaze. Her wide blue eyes shimmered with some nameless emotion before they dropped to her hands and her focus narrowed onto her performance, and her performance alone.</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>Which, to every ear there, was transcendent and flawless. </p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>Sherlock closed his eyes, savouring where the music transported him without fear of censure. John stared at the virtuoso, jaw slack with shock as he listened to the greatest performance he had ever witnessed. All awareness of time and surroundings fled, each observer lost in their own little bubble of appreciation. It wasn’t just a musical experience. It was a spiritual one.</p>
<p>Ineffable.</p>
<p>Magical.</p>
<p>Perhaps even haunting.</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>After a period that could have been only minutes, or could have lasted several hours, the spotlight faded until all that could be seen was inky blackness. Stunned silence filled the room, until abruptly the overhead lights pierced the darkness.</p>
<p>A collective gasp filled the room, followed by thunderous applause as the spell broke. The young lady sitting at the keyboard with her head bowed, startled upright at the sound. She slowly stood up, staring at her audience as if they were unexpected guests at a party of one. Her cheeks pinked as she soaked in the praise and adoration. A tentative smile teased her lips. Where before she had radiated an aura of otherworldliness, she now appeared as substantial as any other human being. The perceived paleness of her skin now glowed with a healthy, rosy hue. Her hand went to her chest and her head bowed in acknowledgement.</p>
<p>“Magnificent!” Sherlock shouted as he clapped along with everyone else. He was on his feet, as was John and the entire audience. For such a small crowd, the noise was almost deafening.</p>
<p>Swept along with the crowd’s enthusiasm, and further encouraged by Sherlock’s reaction, John boomed “Bravo! Amazing performance!” For a man who had never been much affected by music, his spirit soared this night. He could only imagine what Sherlock, a virtuoso in his own right, was experiencing. </p>
<p>The applause died down, and everyone else melted towards the exit. Sherlock, on the other hand, strode purposefully towards the debutante. Shaken from his trance, John padded after him. </p>
<p>“Ms Holmes,” Sherlock said smoothly, extending his hand. Marjorie tracked him from head to toe, her eyes sharp and assessing. She placed her delicate hand on Sherlock’s, the tips of her long fingers touching his palm and her wrist raised daintily.</p>
<p>Sherlock blinked. Recovering nicely, he dipped his head and raised her hand to his lips, placing a chaste kiss on her knuckles. </p>
<p>John gaped.</p>
<p>Both Holmes’ dropped their hands and straightened their backs. </p>
<p>“That was the most exquisite performance I have ever experienced. You have a bright future ahead of you, Ms Holmes.”</p>
<p>A spark of sadness animated her face for a split second before an expressionless mask slipped into place.</p>
<p>“Thank you, Mister…?” </p>
<p>Her voice was soft and melodious, as sweet and fluid as honey dripping from the honeycomb. It flowed over and into both men, creating a feeling of serenity and well-being.</p>
<p>“Holmes. Sherlock Holmes, at your service.” Sherlock gave a slight bow. “No relation to you, at least none that I am aware of.”</p>
<p>Marjorie blinked, her mask still firmly in place.  “Sherlock Holmes, the famous detective? The one who lives on Baker Street in London?”</p>
<p>Sherlock beamed. “The very same.”</p>
<p>“How did you hear of me, and of my… debut performance?”</p>
<p>“My brother gave us tickets. Oh, pardon me; this is my partner, Doctor John Watson.”</p>
<p>Marjorie’s eyes skittered briefly over to John before settling again on Sherlock. “Your brother?”</p>
<p>“Mycroft Holmes, yes.” He snorted. “Our parents were fond of ridiculous names. I won’t even go into the absurdity of our sister’s name.”</p>
<p>Marjorie’s eyes flashed.</p>
<p>Sherlock continued, “I’m not sure how Mycroft knows of you, but these tickets were a gift from him. A gift that I must remember to thank him most profusely for. This evening has been nothing short of a spiritual experience, and for me to say such a thing is profoundly… out of character.”</p>
<p>John snorted. “I’ll say. No offence, Ms Holmes.”</p>
<p>“None taken, Doctor Watson. I know of Sherlock - Mr Holmes’ - reputation.”</p>
<p>“Sherlock, please. Mr Holmes is my father. Do you have any plans firmed up yet for your future? I have some connections in the music industry - “</p>
<p>“No need, Mr - Sherlock. I appreciate the gesture, but steps were taken long ago to assure my place in society. I have made my peace with it.”</p>
<p>“Ah. Family pressures?”</p>
<p>“Something like that. Rest assured, I am exactly where I need to be at this time.”</p>
<p>Sherlock inclined his head. “Thank you for speaking with us, Marjorie. I look forward to attending more of your performances during what I am confident will be a glittering career.”</p>
<p>“As you say. Good evening, gentlemen.” Marjorie Holmes caressed the piano keys one more time before turning around and exiting stage left. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Two enraptured men watched her go.</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>After a night of languorous lovemaking, Sherlock and John woke just before 10 o’clock the next morning. Sherlock’s eyes popped open immediately upon waking. Not one to have a luxurious lie-in, he scrambled out of bed and declared, “Get up, John. I want to return to Heritage House and continue our conversation with Ms Holmes.”</p>
<p>“Umph? Heritage House? What makes you think she’ll still be there?”</p>
<p>“It says so on the programme. Q&amp;A starting at 11 am. Get. Up.”</p>
<p>John threw the covers to the side and continued lying there. He looked at his watch. “Not before I get the breakfast that’s included in the price of our stay. And what programme, I didn’t get one.”</p>
<p>Sherlock rolled his eyes. “The doorman gave one to me. And the kitchen shuts down at 10:30, there’s not enough time.”</p>
<p>“Plenty of time, you berk. It’s not even 10 yet. We’ll eat - or at least I will - and then we can go.”</p>
<p>Sherlock huffed. “Fine. You and your insipid need to <em>eat</em>.”</p>
<p>John snorted. “Yes. My very human, <em>necessary</em> need to eat. And yours as well.”</p>
<p>Sherlock’s stomach rumbled. John grinned.</p>
<p>Sherlock scowled. </p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>“What could you possibly need to talk to her about?”</p>
<p>“I’m not quite sure. There’s something about her… Something familiar.”</p>
<p>“All right, keep your secrets then.”</p>
<p>When they pulled up to the house shortly thereafter, both men were taken aback. In the clear light of day, the venue appeared very different; but of course that could be accounted for by the somewhat spooky atmosphere of the night before. The house still looked magnificent, but the lack of dramatic lighting toned down the awe that it had previously inspired. The white sign surrounded by a forest green border was still there, now proclaiming it as “Holmes Manor”, and it had extra text under that heading that hadn’t been there before. The entrance to the house was sectioned off with velvet ropes that discouraged entry, unlike the welcoming facade from last evening.</p>
<p>Sherlock stopped the car near the sign, and both men got out to better read the new information.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>‘<strong>This private residence will be temporarily open to the public starting on October 31 and running through the month of November. It is to commemorate the life of the talented young Marjorie Holmes, who tragically died here on the evening of October 10th, 1870 under suspicious circumstances. The following day was to be her 18th birthday, and was also to be the day that she was presented to the public as the musical prodigy that seemed to be her destiny. The case remains open to this day.’</strong></p>
<p> </p>
<p>Sherlock murmured, “Last night was 150 years to the day since her death.”</p>
<p>They continued reading.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <strong>‘Her body was found slumped over her piano by one of her older brothers, 20-year old Sherlock. He would go on to become a renowned consulting detective, and historians believe this was the event that determined his career. 27-year old Mycroft was in London at the time, overseeing government business. Her parents were already asleep in bed.</strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong>‘The property now belongs to Rudolph Holmes, a direct descendant of Marjorie’s uncle of the same name. We thank him for his generosity in donating the use of this home and for allowing all monetary donations received to go towards supporting budding young musicians who are in need and could use a helping hand. </strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong>‘Thank you for your interest and support.’</strong>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Uncle Rudy,” Sherlock whispered, holding John’s hand in a death grip. “I never knew any of this. I wasn’t aware that he owned more than his property in Essex.”</p>
<p>He and John stared at each other. A chill went through them both simultaneously, and they shivered. </p>
<p>John shook himself. He barked out a nervous laugh. “Really, Sherlock? A ghost? The woman we watched perform last night was a <em>ghost?</em> Have you taken leave of your senses?”</p>
<p>“Well, let’s ask these gentlemen then, shall we?”</p>
<p>Sherlock tugged on John’s hand, dragging him towards the house’s entrance. They were met by a young man with a wide smile. </p>
<p>“Hello, gentlemen. Are you interested in the tour? Unfortunately we don’t open for a couple of weeks yet, but - “</p>
<p>“Was a concert held here last night?” Sherlock interrupted brusquely. “A solo piano performance, given by a young lady at 8 pm?”</p>
<p>The man looked at him in confusion. “Er… no? This is a private residence that will only temporarily be open - “</p>
<p>“How do you explain this, then?” Sherlock held out his programme from the night before.</p>
<p>The man read it, confusion melting into amusement. He laughed as he stepped back.</p>
<p>“I think you have your dates and locations mixed up, sir. That performance took place last month by the London Symphony Orchestra, in… London.”</p>
<p>Sherlock snatched the paper back, irritation oozing from every pore. “What do you mean, performance in London…”</p>
<p>His voice trailed off as he skimmed the programme, eyes widening. </p>
<p>“That’s… not possible.”</p>
<p>John interjected, addressing the worker. “So you’re saying there was nothing scheduled here for last night? There was no -- exhibition, no gathering of any kind.”</p>
<p>“Nope. Nothing of the sort. Were you trying to locate something in particular?”</p>
<p>John chewed on his lip, brow furrowed. “No. No, not really.” He smiled brightly. “Just two blokes on holiday, looking for some entertainment. Sorry to bother you. Thank you for your time.” He grabbed Sherlock’s arm and steered him back towards their car.</p>
<p>“Any time!” the young man called at their retreating backs. “Feel free to come back when we’re open!”</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>Their mostly one-sided conversation on the way home was animated. </p>
<p>“So I actually <em>am</em> related to her, albeit distantly.” </p>
<p>John snorted at Sherlock’s unintended joke. Sherlock ignored him and continued his spiel.</p>
<p>“And there was <em>another</em> Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes in the Victorian era? With the same careers as their modern counterparts? And a sister with just as much talent, just focussed differently?” </p>
<p>Sherlock gasped. “A parallel to Euros, perhaps? Only more benign. That might explain the effect she apparently had on both of us, manipulating our senses and emotions. Was she manipulating the entire audience? John! The audience all had garb from the Victorian era just like she did. Were they <em>all</em> ghosts? Even the greeters? But they all arrived in modern looking vehicles…”</p>
<p>“So we’re accepting the reality of ghosts, now?”</p>
<p>“I never discard a theory until I have examined all of the possibilities. Do you have a better explanation, John?”</p>
<p>John shrugged. “I dunno. Maybe your brother just played an elaborate practical joke on us? Although that doesn’t really seem his style, does it?”</p>
<p>“My brother doesn’t have a sense of humour.”</p>
<p>“Maybe a sense of the macabre, though?”</p>
<p>“John. Do you not recall his reaction when we broke into his house and tried to scare him half to death? Mostly succeeded too, if I remember correctly.”</p>
<p>John sighed. “Well, the only other explanation I can think of is that Mycroft is somehow aware of this part of your collective history, and there must be a reason that he brought it to your attention. Although he could have been more straightforward about it, if you ask me. Then again, he does so love to be dramatic.”</p>
<p>“Doesn’t he just?”  </p>
<p>Sherlock chewed on his lip thoughtfully as he drove. “He knew I’d have to experience it for myself, or I would have just laughed in his face..."</p>
<p>Suddenly he slammed his palm down on the steering wheel, and he exclaimed loudly, “Of course! Obvious!"</p>
<p>John jumped, startled. “What? Sherlock!”</p>
<p>“The case is still open, John! That’s what the sign said. It’s a cold case! Brilliant! An early Christmas present from my brother. And it might just take me that long to solve it.”</p>
<p>John laughed. “Christmas is only a couple of months away, do you really think - “</p>
<p>“I don’t think, I know! Imagine if I could solve the mystery of my own ancestor’s death! Well, not <em>direct</em> ancestor, but close enough.”</p>
<p>“Do you think it was murder?”</p>
<p>“Not enough data at this time. Oh Mycroft, you wonderful, stupendous pain in my arse. This just may make up for all of your past failings.” Sherlock practically vibrated in his seat. “BRILLIANT!”</p>
<p>John chuckled. Then a shadow crossed his face, as if he were remembering the other supposedly supernatural case that had crossed their path, and how that had all turned out.</p>
<p>John shook his head as if to dispel unsettling thoughts. He burrowed down into his seat and closed his eyes. Sherlock’s eyes remained glued to the road ahead as the miles melted away under the hypnotic rumbling of tyres on pavement. </p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>Back at Holmes Manor, night had fallen once again. Like it had thousands of times before. The workers had left hours ago, leaving the sole inhabitant alone. The apparition floating before the bathroom mirror studied its own reflection. The perpetual expression of melancholy seemed to have lifted just a bit, softening the ghostly features. Marjorie Holmes tilted her head.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The light at the end of a very long tunnel had just become brighter. Sherlock Holmes was on the case.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This was an experiment in Third Person Objective. It may only be partially successful, but I had fun doing it! I always want to get inside the boys' heads!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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